Used to Weather and Wind
by GwennielOfNargothrond
Summary: Driven by boredom and a will to show their worth, Amrod and Amras, the young lords of Estolad decide to take matters into their own hands, best as they can, while the Long Peace still lasts.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note on the Usage of Names: **_

_This is is a long A/N, but it's merely to clear up any confusion. You need not read it, especially if you are well versed with the Quenyan names of the Princes of Noldor. _

_While it was stated somewhere that Amrod and Amras called each other by their mother-name, which was for the both of them "Ambarussa", I have taken the liberty to disregard that rule here as it would in the end be quite confusing. Quenyan names that will be used to refer to the twins by their close family will hence be:_

_- Pityafinwë, "Pityo" – _Amrod  
_- Telufinwë, "Telvo" – _Amras

_For reference, here are the used names of the characters. Generally they use Quenyan within family and Sindarin as titles. If there is any confusion or other issues, please let me know. I won't mind – I'll just be happy to help my readers understand my writing. _

_Fëanáro – _Fëanor  
_Nolofinwë – _Fingolfin  
_Arafinwë – _Finarfin

_Maitimo – _Maedhros  
_Macalaurë – _Maglor  
_Tyelkormo – _Celegorm  
_Carnistir, "Moryo" (short for Morifinwë, his father-name) – _Caranthir  
_Curufinwë – _Curufinwë

_Findekáno – _Fingon  
_Findaráto – _Finrod Felagund  
_Artaresto – _Orodreth  
_Angaráto – _Angrod  
_Aikanáro – _Aegnor

–_-_

**Used to Weather and Wind**

_**Chapter 1**_

"_Amrod and Amras," _Findaráto Felagund had said to us. _"Your lands are big but your people are few, is that not so?" _He had smiled a gentle smile, his eyes bright. _"The king of the Sindar will not welcome the Secondborn into his lands. He fears... well, I do not know what he fears, because there is no reason to fear, but he has shut his borders from Men, who are but seeking for a safe place to settle in."_

I still remember when Finrod Findaráto Felagund had asked whether our lands were fruitful enough to yield enough of food for a tribe of Men that would settle in. Our lands had plenty of room for newcomers, he had said, especially considering how our own people was so small. Our people was indeed small, and we had long ago realized for ourselves that without a bigger following, we could never do much to help our brothers in the Siege in the North.

Pityafinwë had had a thoughtful expression on his face. "Are you thinking what I am thinking?" he had asked.

"That if these Men become our followers there will be more people to guard our lands?" I had asked.

He had nodded. "But it is not only our lands that need guards. If indeed the Men will join us, our new followers and allies will have warriors to spare, and we may finally be of some help to our brothers in the North, to the Siege. Our people will be strong." And I had known what he meant. What had our people been? Mere hunters in the woods, dwellers of the woods to such an extent that only the Tree-light in our eyes and the Noldorin weapons in our hands made us much different from the Nandor, the Green-elves. Our people were the followers of the youngest children of a dispossessed family – in other words, completely dismissable. And so Pityafinwë and I had dreamt of gaining followers, like Findaráto, winning fame and admiration among the Mortals who looked up to him as their teacher.

A bright yet chilly day and Pityafinwë and I were on our way back home, returning from a hunting trip we had made to take a break from the life in our own halls. The hoofs of our horses stepped softly on the dew-damp grass on the flat fields of Estolad.

We passed by the founding stones of a group of abandoned houses and vegetable paths, buildings that once were homes to the Men who inhabited this land not so long ago and yet now were all gone. I recalled the hamlet that had once stood here and could not help but to sigh at the irony: the brave people that had dwelled in these houses were indeed now serving to protect the Siege; only they had sworn their allegiances directly to our brothers and cousins, in Dorthonion and Hithlum, leaving us with empty ranks and empty lands. No man lived here now; they had preferred to become vassals of lords greater than us.

"Look Telvo," my brother said, and I glanced into the direction he nodded his head. "Seems like somebody still lives here."

Behind a bramble-covered stone cut into a square, the gleaming eyes of a marten peeked up. Its ears twitched, and it looked as if we had interrupted its journey to the apple tree in the ruined garden, where the unpicked apples were blackened by late autumn.

"Go on," I said. "We won't hunt you." The marten looked at us suspiciously, but did not come forth. "Fine. Be that way." We rode on.

"These are good lands," Pityafinwë sighed, pulling the hood off his dark copper hair. "Forest, shelter, a nice climate. Yet all our brothers and cousins live in places where it is either cold or mountainous – or both – and come here only to hunt every once in a while."

"Perhaps Uncle Nolofinwë did not think we are cut out to such terrains, so they had be given to the others," I shrugged. "Though I wonder why. We are hunters, used to weather and wind." Pityafinwë laughed.

As with many of our so-called hunting trips, we did not hunt as actively as we simply enjoyed the nature. After all, had we dragged home every marten, boar and deer we saw, our stocks would have been overflowing. "We could start selling it to Carnistir," Pityafinwë had once said only half-jokingly. "He could sell them to his Dwarf friends." But we were no merchants, and since the Siege of Angband had enabled everyone to hunt for themselves, most of our sales went to our own friends and allies. Not that we were after gold, of course.

Occasionally our kinsfolk decided to come hunting on our lands – whenever they did not feel like going all the way to the woods of Thargelion, that is. Still, the lands were abundant, partly due to the sparse population. That was something my brother and I were thankful of at least.

When not hunting, we had our duties to take care of. What sort of duties would be left to us young ones, who had uncles and cousins to take care of everything for us? For one thing, we still ran a household and were responsible for everthing concerning the lands of Estolad. Our lodging was a beautiful hall, crafted with the hunting halls of Oromë, our old teacher, in mind. It had never been as lofty as the hunting halls of Tyelkormo, which were thicker in their walls and higher in their pillars as if the place was a small palace, but our home was beautiful enough and suited our needs.

Upon our return, Pityafinwë asked to see any letters of other documents that had piled up during our absence of several days, and we were prepared for doing paperwork until morning. Yet, as usual, it was a sorry bunch of papers, consisting of a casual letter from Carnistir and one not-so-urgent looking paper from Maitimo that needed our signatures, along with a brotherly greeting. One look at Pityafinwë's face confirmed me of that he harboured the same kind of sentiment as I did – disappointment. I placed the letters back on the desk, turning to look outside the window.

"Well..." I began. "perhaps if we hold a small court meeting, something of interest will appear."

"Sure," my brother replied behind me. "Any troubles in the South? Any quarrels with the Laiquendi? Any horses with a broken leg that needs tending? I'd take a horse with a broken leg any day. Well, I wouldn't, because poor animal, but..." his voice faded into a mutter, his mutter faded away. I turned around to reply, but then noticed that he stood by the desk, rereading the letter of Maitimo.

"What is it, Pityo?"

He looked up. "We should have a fortress," he said, almost as if merely thinking out loud, and I let him elaborate his idea. "A fortress is the symbol of power. Only the king is entitled the right to wear a crown, but anyone may build themselves a fortress if they wish."

"True," I admitted. "You think having our own fortress to protect would give our status as princes of Noldor more credibility?"

"Well..." He shrugged. "Yes, essentially. It would at least make our name known. It would give us something to do, something of importance."

"What made you think of this plan?" I asked. "Was there something in Maitimo's letter?"

Browsing through the papers in his hands, he walked up to me. "I know our brothers all love us," he began carefully, "but sometimes they come off more patronizing than they should and than they probably mean to. Telling us not to worry about the Siege or about our own lack of military forces, not asking for much tidings from the South." He quickly read through Maitimo's squiggly handwriting again before he found the extract he was looking for. "Well, this is not an example of that, but it is what got me thinking. This part right here," he said, pointing.

I bent down to read it for myself. It was a paragraph in which Maitimo briefly commentated on life on Himring, as he usually did in his letters to us. _Himring has grown since you last were here. The road up to the keep is now broader, and this summer the wall that looks towards Macalaurë's lands in the east was made a tad wider. Certainly the Hill of Himring has a long way to go before it can match the forts of Hithlum! But they have the advantage of a greater population. Findekáno's castle in Dor-Lómin has during the past century __of the Long Peace__ grown especially great; he described it to me as a loop – first more people moved in, so the land became greater, and then the greater land attracted even more people, the most recent __vassals__ being the Marachians..._ The people of Marach were one of the groups of Men that had once lived in Estolad, I thought. But I could see what Pityafinwë was aiming at. That loop.

"Where would we build our fortress?" I asked finally. "Here on this place? On a hilltop somewhere else?" I supposed the latter was more likely, knowing Pityafinwë. "I the south? Amon Ereb?"

"Amon Ereb indeed would be a good place," he said thoughtfully. "It is a good spot, I presume, good for look-out, good for defence, and there would be plenty of material to build, right in the hills nearby." He was smiling, but then his face fell. "Do you think this is just a silly dream? Be honest with me, Telvo."

"No, not silly at all," I said. "There is a lack of year-round tended forts in those parts of Beleriand. No harm done if we have a look-out to look across Andram from. Only stray beasts and Sindarin patrols live in those parts."

Pityafinwë looked content. I could see how his mind was already planning the construction and visualising the first fortress we could call our very own.

"It should stand on the top of the hill with guardtowers on all sides," he mumbled. "And a great yard inside the walls. It needs to have room for expansion."

"We have to think progressively," I agreed. "It needs to have enough room for more people to settle there later."

He pulled out a quill and made notes on the backside of Maitimo's letter, writing down what we had said and the suggestions I kept throwing at him, so that maybe we could present the proposition at our next court meeting. We built ourselves a mental image of a fortress that would stand bright and sharp on the hilltop, as high as Himring, beautiful against the blue sky and greenish fields of Estolad, as grand as Ered Nimrais, and prosper against every attack. We did not need our brothers' armies to protect us, for we would defend our fortress ourselves.

And both of us happily ignored the fact that during peacetime there would be no need to defend anything, especially not in the South, where not even Morgoth ever bothered to turn his gaze.

For such a small household as ours, what we called a court meeting was not nearly of the same scale as that of Kings Fingolfin and Finrod or even of Maitimo and Findekáno, at that time princes less high in power. What we called a court meeting was a mere shadow of it, but it served as a gathering of the lesser lords of Estolad to our hall to discuss current matters, no matter how insignificant they may have been. Usually and especially of late, those matters concerned the hunting season, and anyone was permitted to attend those discussions, making them less and less informal, the audience consisting of any butler or squire who had time to spare. Yet neither my brother nor I had any objections to the casual atmosphere of those meetings, which, if truth be told, made us feel more comfortable when addressing people we regarded as our equals and comrades.

Without any hesitation, we presented our plans for the fortress we had come up with the day before. Pityafinwë listed advantages of a new safehold and I read out the list of our current ideas.

"This list is open for more suggestions, which will all be considered during our next meetings," I finished, glancing over the faces of everyone in the room, a mixed crowd seated around the great table or on benches at the edges of the room. I was faced by expressions of surprise, curiousity, doubt, and even amusement.

"I beg your pardon, Princes," someone said after a considerable amount of silence had passed, "but are we all to move to Amon Ereb?"

"A steward would be appointed to guard these halls," Pityafinwë began, but there was still some mumbling and he stopped, looking at the assembly with a questioning look. "You seem to disagree with us," he said.

"Not so much to disagree..." came the careful answer from one lord. "But would we truly move so far south from our current stead? Already the road from here to our closest allies, the Halls of Princes Celegorm and Curufin, is a hundred miles, and moving to Amon Ereb would double the distance. Estolad is empty as it is. Is it wise to isolate ourselves in such a way?"

Pityafinwe glanced at me: apparently it sounded like disagreeing in his ears, too. "It would indeed position us far from other settlements," he mumbled for only me to hear. "But should we see that as a risk worth taking?"

I bit my lip. "Yes," I said eventually. "It is a risk we take for the sake of landing a strategic location to help our brothers." I addressed the people again. "We cannot keep relying on Princes Celegorm and Curufin and everyone else, because surely it is time for us to take action ourselves. By settling Amon Ereb, we open the Noldor a protected route South, beyond Andram."

"Harken to the words of Prince Amras!" Pityafinwë cried, standing up from his chair. I could sense his excitement. "It would be a great service to the Noldor, to all folk of East Beleriand. What are we guarding if we stay here? An old and broken Dwarf-road that has not been travelled since the Edain left us for Dorthonion and Dor-Lómin." For a moment he hesitated, but then went on, his voice now graver. "I will speak to you frankly. Do you know why Estolad is empty? Because the people that one lived here have deserted it. You live here still, appreciating its fair fields and woodlands, but outsiders barely give these lands a glance. Is it not time for us to reap ourselves a better reputation?"

My brother could be good with words when he wanted to – I felt our father would have been proud of him, had he seen what we had become. The people around us muttered to each other, but more and more it sounded like approval, faces lighting up, lips tugging into smiles. Not all were entirely persuaded, to be sure, but the words had had an effect.

"In this time of peace it is not a bad idea to prepare for the future by strengthening the borders," said one voice. "But the Siege is north. What do we do with Amon Ereb?"

"Our brothers take care of the north," Pityafinwë replied. "Once again, in a letter, Prince Maedhros has assured us of that we need not worry ourselves with it. Indeed, is it not our duty to take care of matters in the South, since these are the lands we have been given?"

"How long will the Siege hold? Rumours say some fear it will break in due time."

"Who has started such tales?" I asked, frowning.

"It came from Dorthonion, I believe," a herald seated at the lond end of the table muttered. "From the front of the Siege."

"It came from Ossiriand," said someone else, "from the Nandor."

"There have always been people who doubt the Siege, believing the Enemy as merely feigning submission," I pointed out. "Is that not all the more reason for us to start acting? As the Princes of Estolad, it is the duty and the priority of Amrod and I to first take care of matters concerning our own lands, which is why we have presented you this proposition." And the more I spoke, the better I fully realized it, or the better I was persuading my own heart. It was not for fame and admiration we were doing this, not for gaining back the Men who formerly had lived in the abandoned houses. We were doing it to show our brothers our true worth, regardless of what the rumous said..

"I will not expect you to give your opinion on this matter just today", Pityafinwë said beside me. "Rather I beg you to merely keep considering it in your own thoughts: we shall decide on this on a later meeting."

He sat back down. "Do you think they will agree?" I asked him quietly.

He looked down at his hands clutching the paper with the suggestions. "Maybe. They are Noldor and most of them are fearless hunters. They have their pride to mind."

The notion struck me. Were we seeking for new realms and glory only because we were Noldor? After some consideration, I decided such a claim could not be so very far from hitting the truth. What was a member of the House of Fëanor without dreams bigger than life or without the determination to fulfil them no matter how long it will take?

I remember when we were children and still lived in Tirion. My brothers and I used to play at being Valar – of course not impersonating the actual Ainur, but taking on our own titles and powers. Macalaurë had often opted for being the Vala of Music, because he felt it was important, especially since Arda itself had been created through music, and Carnistir had once earned a swat on his head for saying that the reason every single Vala could sing was the reason there was no real reason for a Vala of Music.

I remember Tyelkormo had at one time always been the Vala of Hunting, which had caused some problems when Pityo and I had wanted to be the Vala of Hunting once in a while. Tyelko had said we could be his Maiar instead. Yet eventually we, too, became the Valar of Hunting. That, however, was at a later time when Tyelkormo had already grown too old to see the ordeal as being of any interest.

I was not sure such reminiscing entered my thoughts the next morning when I woke up in my room to the autumn sun shining brightly through the high windows, but I supposed it had something to do with whatever I had dreamt of that night. Then I remembered that it was not so, because what I had actually been thinking of had been more related to what our mother had said after Pityo and I had ended up playing Valar in her room, asking her whether she would mind being the Valie of Sculpting, since two Valar were all too few. For once she had put down the chisel in the middle of her work, wiped her hands on her apron, and sat down on a block of marble, taking us by the hand.

"_Ambarussa, I will be your Valie if you want me to, but does it matter how many you are?" _she had said. _"If you call yourselves as great as the Valar, you have the power to be great on your own." _To which I had replied that even the Valar were worthless if they stood by themselves. She had asked whether it was father who had told me that, then shaken her head and said:_ "You go out there, my sons, and show them your might!" _

Such were the silly memories engulfing me as I lay there, and I thought to myself how we would perhaps finally show them our might. And at the same time I regretted that Nerdanel was not there to see us, that indeed she perhaps knew nothing of how we were doing here on the other side of the world, where no Vala or Valie sent their blessings. Sometimes I wondered whether I should not just have taken a ship before they were burnt and sailed back to Valinor.

My meditation was interrupted when my brother knocked the door only to immediately enter the room himself and promptly take a seat at the end of my bed. He poked at me through the blanket. I gave him a kick in reply.

"Were you still sleeping?" he asked with a grin. "You're a heavy sleeper."

I rose into a sitting position. "Am I right in that you yourself haven't slept at all tonight?"

"Yes, you are," he said, sat quiet for a moment, then went on. "I have been calculating on how we could get materials for the fortress," he said. "I am not Carnistir, but I think I figured out some things."

As I got up and started to dress, Pityafinwë remained seated on my bed, explaining how Amon Ereb had a natural wall to one side; how stones could be hewn from the nearby cliffs; how ready stones could be gathered from nearby abandoned settlements; and how Carnistir could, if needed, persuade the Dwarves to help us, although it would be better, Pityo said, if we could manage without their aid. By the time I was ready, he had finished, and as I turned around, he looked at me and asked quietly: "Do you think we can make it?"

"I do," I answered.

"So you think the others will agree to us building a fortress on Amon Ereb?"

"I... I do," I said again. "We will make it." Then I told him what I had been thinking of that morning and the memories from past. My brother smiled at me.

"This is why I love you. To be sure, we will show them our might," he said. "To be sure."

There was no meeting that day, because as things were, there was no need for a meeting every day. Thus we had that day free and spent it mostly in the stables. In the evening we wrote a reply letter to Carnistir, but made no mention of our plans. Neither of us thought it necessary to inform any of our brothers of it while it was but a proposition that still had to pass the general acceptance the following day.

It seemed to me that the next meeting was more crowded than usually. Perhaps curious people had attended it in hopes of hearing more about the fortress. We took it as a good sign. And a good sign it was. By the end of the meeting, before the sun had passed its summit, it had been decided: a fort would be built upon Amon Ereb to guard the eastern banks of Gelion and of Ossiriand. Signed by Princes Amrod and Amras and their most faithful lords and knights, approved by the majority.

Pityafinwë smiled brightly for the rest of that day. "If we are to play at being Valar," he said, ruffing my hair playfully, "Amon Ereb shall be our Taniquetil."


	2. Chapter 2

**_Chapter 2_  
**

So the time passed, the abandoned fields of Estolad never fully withering away even as they remained empty through weather and wind, and a few years after we had decided to take matters into our own hands our fortress – consisting of a strong ground level and half a tower – had gained a wall facing north. The construction was still in an early stage, the work having been put on hold during the winters, but during the past summer there had been some great progress, and as autumn was coming to its end, we were debating on whether the fort was ready to be inhabited during the cold winter.

In the end Dwarves had been paid in furs and meat to mine material that the Elves could build with, and we took pride in how much was the work of our own hands. The lands around Amon Ereb were even more empty of settlement than northern Estolad, but this was a empty of natural beauty, not of bereavement of something that had been. In the eyes of a hunter, the land was bountiful, and Pityafinwë often said it seemed like each year the hunting season had graced us more and more. The Dwarves had been glad.

When we had announced to our brothers that we were planning to build a fortress on Amon Ereb, I do not think any of them thought that a more or less permanent settlement on that lonely, shallow-sided hill was a bad idea, but that all were a bit surprised by that we were the ones who initiated it. The country was not all that far from the southern lands of Carnistir, so it would have made sense had he expanded his territory across Gelion, but as his abode was by Lake Helevorn in the north – by the Siege – he had no real interest or military strength to spare to guard the southern woods that was mainly treaded by wandering Green-elves only.

A letter from Himlad had arrived that morning. Tyelkormo wrote of the increased number of wolves in the north and of guesses of this being a sign of a colder winter to come; Curufinwë wrote of their latest journey to Dorthonion to meet our cousins there, something he described as a most disagreeable errand; Tyelperinquar merely sent us his regards, saying Dorthonion itself was, in fact, not so bad but rather beautiful, and that even the Men there were fairly decent.

Curufinwë's handwriting... _Since you leave Estolad, we will organize a __small __guard for its northern parts as well, __as we already have a patrol for borders of Nan Elmoth although the Dark-Elf no longer lives there. __Of course, __as was assigned, __Estolad is__ still under your duty, __do not forget!__ but as you move away, you will notice that keeping in touch with all corners of your country is not easy. And remember, I am always ready to give you advice in constructing your castle! It is to me of great architectural interest!_

Then Tyelkormo's handwriting..._How is your castle? _he wrote, and I could not be sure whether the question was joking or sincere. _I do not trust you have perfected __fixing __the __draft__indoors __yet, so we shall wait until spring __before we __visit you. But then we will certainly meet __and go hunting together__! It is a shame you have moved so far away from us! One cannot travel from Himlad to Ereb in a day or even two. But no matter, __little-brothers__. I hope your new lands will be prosperous._

I handed the letter back to Pityafinwë. "That quip about the heating," he chuckled as he folded the letter back into its envelope. "If my memory serves right, Himlad is not much warmer. But I am glad they will visit us once the snows are gone."

We were sitting in the room that doubled as meeting room and dining hall, which incidentally was not as cold as our brother seemed to think, as we had taken care of building a good fireplace. It was currently spreading a soft glow and a warmth to ease everyone's minds after a hard day's work. When I looked out the window, I thought I could see small snowflakes falling down, and although they turned to water as soon as they hit the ground, it was a sign of winter coming. Covers were pulled up across windows and arches that did not yet have a door to keep the weather out. Gates were pulled close and the courtyard was emptied of workers as the rain set in. Inside the fire and the wine kept the cold outside.

When we had began building, after the first levels of stones could be seen against the hilltop from a distance, we had received visitors from the Green-elves. They seldom travelled far from their lands in the woods beyond River Gelion, so meeting them this far in the west had been an unexpected encounter, but they had come to question our purpose on the Ereb.

"Denethor of our people died on this hill," they had said. "We will not let you defile its peace with your business of Noldorin warmongering." They had been quite suspicious of us for a while, but had eventually understood that we wished for no enemity. Occasionally a group of Green-elves would still visit. That year they arrived the day after the first snow, their cloaks more light grey than green to match the landscape.

We were certainly not friends and probably not allies, but we shared some understanding. "How are the lands treating you?" they asked.

"We shall manage them," Pityafinwë replied. "Have you forgotten that my brother and I are hunters, used to weather and wind?" We were standing outside as our guests were unaccustomed to indoors, and a chill was nipping at our noses, a wind tossling our unhooded hairs, but none of us minded.

"You work in the woods, but you do not live in it," the leader of the Green-elves laughed. "You insist on living in great stone houses, but the construction is so slow that a tree sprout will reach your belt before you have any use of it."

"We shall be fine," I replied, unconcerned. "This year our stone house is of enough use to be lived in during winter.

"It is true, then. You will settle here permanently," another Green-elf said, glancing at her surroundings with interest. "Will you still tend to your old lands? Compared to your kinsfolk, you two rarely ride north."

"How would you know how often we ride north?" I asked before I could stop myself. She laughed.

"We see more than you know, red-head," she said. I held my comeback out of courtesy towards guests.

"This brings us to our next question," the leader said again, now back to serious. "Since you come from the North, from the fair lands of Estolad, can you tell us any news from there?"

"News?" I asked. "It is long since we have ridden North. What exactly do you want to know? News of what the Noldor are doing? Or news from the Siege against the enemy? Such information is not typically relayed to outsiders, not in this manner."

"News of anything unusual."

Pityafinwë and I glanced at each other. I saw from his expression that he was equally unsure of what reply our guests were expecting.

"We have lived here longer than you, so perhaps we notice more," the Green-elf said. "Or perhaps it is a skill only the Sindar possess and you who call yourselves Light-elves have forgotten. But as hunters, used to weather and wind, as you said yourselves, perhaps you would have noticed something. Murmur among the beasts, tracks on the paths, whispers in the sky..."

"What have you seen?" I asked, cutting to the matter that seemed so urgent, my fists were tense.

"A premonition; foresight if you will," said the Green-elf who had spoken earlier. "Birds fly to southern lands in flocks bigger than before. Beasts migrate – "

"That we have noticed! I did not realize it, as indeed we have not lived here as long, but this fall has been bountiful." Pityafinwë interrupted. "Is it a sign? The rumours...?"

"There is something wrong," I said, realizing the same as my brother. "Something that has frightened them."

"Birds are the first to flee from fire," the Green-elves said gravely. "That has happened before. It happened before the Cold Winter. It happened after your kin had driven the Enemy back to Beleriand. Beasts fleeing before the goblins blades."

Ignoring the Green-elves' factual mistake regarding the Enemy, Pityafinwë and I looked at each other again. Were there not even among our own folk people who feared the end of the Long Peace, who said no good thing could last this long, not since the death of the Trees.

"Do you know anything for certain?" I inquired. "When will the storm strike?"

The Green-elves cast down their glances. Their leader spoke: "We do not know. No one knows the future. We may read the stars, but the stars are dimmed. The animals, however, murmur still, and this is why we came to you." He lift up his gaze, his deep eyes stern. "Rumour tells there is one with the gift of speaking and understanding the tongues of animals. A hunter of the House of Fëanor."

"Tyelkormo..." Pityafinwë muttered. I felt my heart sinking. Our guests had come in vain and we were not able to provide the information they sought for.

"It is not us who possess that talent," I said. "He whom you seek is our brother, Prince Celegorm. He rules in Himlad."

The Green-elf's disappointment was visible, but at the same time he held his stoic dignity. "Can he be reached?"

"He wrote us recently, telling of more wolves in the north," Pityafinwë remembered.

"We can write him a letter and ask for more, but it will take a while before he can answer," I replied.

"It is good," our guest bowed his head. "None of my people wishes to travel the long road to Himlad, where the Enemy's ears are closer and hearts are dark. Not gladly do we ask you of this service, but if your brother can decipher the words of the woods, we will feel more certain." A wry smile spread across his face. "Though of course we, living in the South, have nothing to fear, for is it not your kinfolk who defend the Siege in the North?"

"And long may they defend it," Pityafinwë replied, also smiling, though his expression looked more forced.

Our guests did not stay with us much longer after that as they had their own businesses to mind, but the news they had told us gnawed my mind the rest of that day. I could see Pityafinwë was equally troubled. That day we wrote our letter to Himlad, asking if he had noticed something strange. That evening a rider was sent to bring it to Tyelkormo as quickly as possible. That night we curled on a cushioned bench, staring out the window of our barely finished windows, wondering whether the stars, had they been clear that night, would indeed have told us something of what was to come. Suddenly all the air around us seemed full of premonition. I felt a shiver down my spine as I stared at the dark.

But my brother beside me took my hand. "Long may they defend it," he said. It was enough. I relaxed.

"Should we ride North?" he asked after a silence.

"Can we help our brothers by not finishing the fortress first?" I asked.

"You're right," he said. His fist kneaded his eyes. "I just wish there was a way for us to prove ourselves. It was not even us whom those strange Green-elves sought for."

"We don't know when – or if – something is going to happend. We shall finish Amon Ereb, then march forth," I mumbled. "Long may we all defend." I felt a hand ruffle my hair. Soon afterwards I fell asleep.

When I opened my eyes, it was dark. Pityafinwë was curled at the other end the bench, asleep. Though alike in so many ways – in all ways, some would argue – he usually slept less than I, but when he slept he looked peaceful again. My brilliant twin.

Back in Valinor he and I had often wondered what would be in store for us when we grew up. Maitimo was politically talented, Macalaurë made music like a blackbird (or so Pityafinwë described it), and Curufinwë was the only person in Valinor who had the potential to match our father in skill. Talents and recognition were like dinner, Pityafinwë used to say, in that because we came so late, there was nothing left for us. We became hunters, eventually, but Tyelkormo had already made his fame in the profession. We were, in a way, left in the background. It was never what we asked for, it merely happened: somehow it happened even in Middle-Earth where we were supposed to have a new beginning. And no matter how supportive our brothers were, our place in the shadows seemed to escape them.

Yet back in Valinor, I then remembered, had not our mother told us we would show our might? And another time, had not father once – a faint memory of our home in Tirion – said that our brothers kept us from playing with them simply because they were thinking of what was best for us? Fëanáro by the stove, absentmindedly hanging a ladle in what would be our meal that night while he was browsing for something in the notebook he always kept with him, then peeking under the table where we were sulking as the small children we were. _"There will always be dinner left for you,"_ he had said. _"You will never arrive too late." _

"_I used dinner as a __metaphor__,"_ Pityafinwë had pouted.

"_You used it as a s__imile,"_ our father had corrected. _"I used it as a __metaphor__. __But we are both right.__"_ Then he had snuck us a sugared apple to share.

I briefly wondered whether I was the only one to still sometimes think about those times.

As days passed, the weather turned colder and colder, the winter clearly approaching. Back in Estolad the snow had probably already covered the ground, we thought, especially since no reply from Tyelkormo had yet come even though we had explained the urgency of the matter. It was only a matter of time before the snow would hit Amon Ereb as well, and our court meeting ended in the decision of putting the construction on hold as soon as the tower had its roof finished. No one talked about it, but the recent news were clearly part of the reason for the plan to quickly finish the tower. The Green-elves did not return.

As the snow reached our ankles and no more came, we supposed that a reply from Himlad would soon come, but it never did. I wondered whether we should ride forth ourselves to see what was going on, but in the end we decided not to, because for all we knew, the letter might already be on its way back. Alternatively, Tyelkormo may have been travelling and thus not yet had time to read what we had sent.

However, not knowing what was going on, Pityafinwë and I went out hunting more frequently than we usually did during winter. Hunting we called it, but it was mere riding on the snow-covered hills, keeping a lookout on anything that could be considered a sign of something. Though we knew not exactly what it was we were seeking.

On one of those journeys the wind blew cold in our faces and we stopped to camp on a hill, by the ruin of an abandoned piece of wall, that shielded us from the light white powder that puffed into the dark air as the snow mowed the snow dunes. We lit only a small fire, mostly to give us some warmth, rather than bring light, as the moonlit snow was bright enough for our eyes.

"I like how you can actually see the stars in Middle-Earth," Pityafinwë said, gazing upwards as we had wrapped ourselves into our cloaks. "You could never see them in Valinor for all the light."

"Feels like Cuivienen," I said. Then we sat quiet again, waiting for the wind to ease.

After some time, I felt Pityafinwë move beside me. When I turned to look at him, I saw how his expression was a surprise turning into worry.

"What is it?" I asked him. "Did you hear something?" My hand automatically reached for my bow, but he shook his head. All the time he had been staring at the night sky, admiring the moon, but then something had caught his eyes, something he now pointed out to me. We stared at it in horror

The horizon in the North was red, a glorious, gruesome glow, faint in the distance, but bright enough to be seen all the way to where we were. We might have taken it for a forest-fire, but it was obvious that it was something else, something more.

Pityafinwë rushed up, I followed him. "That's..." he stammered. "It must be. The Siege! It has been breached."

"How could it be..." I mumbled. Then the dumbed state left my bones. I grabbed my bow automatically. "Come," I said breathlessly, hurrying to our horses. "We have to go. Our brothers are there, fighting. We need to help them."

"Are you going to ride North?" my brother called out from behind me, and as I glanced back, I saw he had not moved.

"What else?" I said, my hands trembling without my realizing it. "It has begun."

Pityafinwë shook his head and caught up with me with long strides. "Don't be foolish, Telvo," he said, grabbing my shoulder, forcing me to stop. "If we are to go, we have to return to Amon Ereb first." And I knew he was right.

My hands dropped back to my sides. "Of course," I said weakly, not knowing what had taken over me. In the north the night sky glowed on. We hurried south.

* * *

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 3**_

It was late in the next day before we reached Amon Ereb, and by that time the people there had also noticed the red fire and figured out what it meant. In daytime while the sun briefly shone from the low southern sky, there was no fire in the north. Instead, a dark cloud, presumably smoke, covered the horizon. It bode no good: the cloud seemed to stretch all the way from the Blue Mountains to far beyond the lands where the forest of Doriath grew. But surely it was not possible for Morgoth to have breached the Siege from every direction, both from the East and the West! That was what we all hoped for, at least.

Pityafinwë quickly took over the meeting, and I let him do so, my mind unable to not dwell on what a state our brothers and cousins' lands might have been in. By the end of the meeting we had deviced a strategy or at least a course of action. We were too few to form more than one effective troop. On the other hand, what we could send out was a cavalry, which kept up some hope.

The following day was the first time we had gone to battle since Dagor Aglareb where we had driven Orcs away from Gelion. Once again we steered east, towards Gelion, Pityafinwë and I in the front. Our aim was to join our brothers – or one of them, whichever we could find first – preferrably before the place where Little Gelion met Greater Gelion. This direction we had chosen, because, as Pityafinwe said, if the battle was to be like the previous time, the Enemy would opt to first break the Gap of Maglor on the eastern side of Himring and only then go for Pass of Aglon on the western side. There was a chance that Orcs would try to break Aglon as well: it was a road that led straight to Himlad and further on to Doriath. But as things were, we could only hope that the pass would be guarded well enough by Tyelkormo and Curufinwë. We did not have the power to go to both directions, not until we had met up with our brothers at least.

A group of scouts we had sent out ahead of us returned with the news of that no Orcs had been sighted. We took it as a good sign and rode on, speeding up, tireless. It was four days since we had left Amon Ereb. Every day the smoke in the North increased, every night the sky glowed red. Still we saw no Orcs. What we saw were only flocks of birds flying high above us, flying south, and hurried prints in the snow, all fleeing. It did not take a Green-elf to see what it meant.

A day before we aimed to reach the delta of the joining rivers of Gelion, we finally met a being of our own kin. Five Elves, two on horses, who stepped forth from behind the trees as soon as they saw the banners we were carrying.

"Who is your lord?" Pityafinwë asked them.

"We are a patrol of Prince Caranthir," they said. My heart leapt up with hope.

"Where is he? He cannot be far away, can he?" I said. "Lead us to him."

"He is coming this way," they said.

"What's wrong?" my brother asked quickly. "We have come here to bring him strength in the battle."

With all due respect, Prince Amrod," they said. "how much do you know of the battle? Himring is under siege with Princes Maedhros and Maglor trapped there. Lake Helevorn has been defiled and Prince Caranthir is retreating south, because we could not hold the Orcs back any longer."

Thus we learnt of what had happened. The servants of Carnistir knew little of what was going on west of Himring, but we heard of how one night, now a fortnight ago, streams of fire had been sighted north of Dorthonion, and the very next day Orcs had attacked with unforeseen and terrible strength. No messengers had made it through to Dorthonion or Mithrim, and our brothers had held the passage to East Beleriand best they could. More of that, they said, we could hear from our brother himself, whom we could soon finally meet at a nearby glade where he was stationed for a break.

Carnistir was unhurt by the battles, but his eyes were bleary and his hair more messy than usual. But when he saw us after we had climbed down from our horses, he hugged us tightly. Then he pulled back. "You should not have come here," he said, turning away.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I mean that you came all the way here for nothing, Telvo," he replied. "You know I am not one to give up the first, but the Enemy has beaten us badly."

"That is why we came, for backup," Pityafinwe said, crossing his arms. "We heard that you are retreating, but you cannot turn away like this. You have to stand and defend."

Carnistir's eyes narrowed. "Stand and defend where, Pityafinwë?" he snarked. "I held my defence at Helevorn, yes I did; but what now, when Helevorn has fallen and there is no stronghold left to hold the front? Dorthonion is in ashes; Himring is locked in a siege. Thargelion has little settlement and I don't have the luck of those Arafinwëans with their loyal Edain peoples holding steads where I could retreat to hold a siege. The closest best place for a siege is south at the River Ascar where I have already sent those of my people who cannot fight, but with the odds as they are, the proportions of the troops, I would be lucky to hold it for even seven days."

"Seven days with your troops as they were," I said. "But now you have us on your side."

Carnistir looked from me to Pityo and back to me again. His fists clenched. "You're right. With your strength we could hold them off for a while longer," he sighed at last. "If Maitimo and Macalaurë during that time can free Himring, perhaps our luck will turn."

Seeing my elder brother regain his courage gave me hope as well. But Carnistir still looked distressed. "Have you... heard anything from Tyelkormo, Curufinwë and Tyelperinquar?" he asked. Pityafinwë shook his head.

"We have not heard from anyone," he said. Carnistir bit his lip.

"Last time I received news from there, the Pass of Aglon was breached and Himlad was under attack. It's a flat land and does not possess the natural barriers Himring does."

"Will they be trapped?" Pityafinwë gasped, glancing at me. I met his eyes.

"If need be, they will back to safety as well," I said. Curufinwë was proud, but as a strategist he knew when to attack and when to defend. "They... may travel south?" I suggested then. It was more of my personal wish than actual guess. Still... "We did send them the letter. They could try to head for Amon Ereb."

"Yes, they could," Pityafinwë muttered, his fingers tugging at the edge of his cloak. "Where else would they go?" he asked Carnistir. "If Himring is unaccessible and Dorthonion truly is lost, surely they can still come south."

Carnistir shrugged. "Supposing they find a way out from Himlad, they could still go westwards," he said after a while. "It would be a nasty passage along the old Dwarf-road, but I hear that although Tol Sirion is under a siege, it is not yet overrun."

The idea of Tyelkormo or Curufinwë travelling to Tol Sirion sounded dubious, knowing how tense the relations between them and Artaresto Orodreth were. Carnistir must have noticed my expression. "You're right, I have no idea of where they are going," he glared at me. "I have no idea if they are going to make it out with their lives intact. The only thing I know is that the northern pass has fallen. The Long Peace has ended, just like the rumour-spreaders have warned for years." He looked as if he had more to say, but silenced himself and stood up, turning away, walking back to his own group and slipping into the crowd on concerned looking soldiers.

I did not remember when was the last time I had seen Carnistir's face so stern. His face was stoic, flickering between emotionless and anger, but both Pityafinwë and I knew him well enough to recognize the sincere worry behind it.

My twin brother sighed and walked to the side of the opening. He sat down beside a tree.

"They could come south," he muttered, leaning on his knees. "The people from Dorthonion, too." He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, yet ignored it when it fell down again. "What do you suppose happened to all those Men who lived there?"

"I'd rather not think about it," I mumbled. If Dorthonion was lost, and especially if its princes, our cousins, had been slain in battle, I did not dare to harbour a hope of the civilians surviving.

"What if we had gone for west instead of east?" he went on. "Maybe we could have helped out at the Pass and change the course of the battle..." He sighed. "No. Had we gone west, we would not be here right now to help Carnistir."

I made no comment. I paced nearby for a few minutes, then went to seek for Carnistir. I found him discussing with one of his officers, looking annoyed and grived. He held up a hand to silence the others as he saw me coming. "What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing urgent," I admitted. "But earlier you talked about rumour-spreaders warning about this. Who are those rumour-spreaders?"

"Them!" Carnistir scoffed. "Philosophers of the Arafinwëans, mainly. Dearest Prince Finrod, ever the seer, and Aikanáro Aegnor, who has been looking gloomy for years now, it seems – or maybe it's only when he sees me. Why do you ask? Have you been hearing the rumours as well?"

I told him of what the Green-elves had told us about the signs they had noticed. Although Carnistir was no hunter or a lover of the wild, lines formed on his brow. "Is that so," he muttered, but made no more comment on it. He had never had much fancy for talk about premonitions and mysteries of the unknown future – he was practical, like father in that sense – yet still he seemed somewhat disturbed by my tale.

We lingered at the glade no more than was necessary, and left south as soon as we could, crossing the River Gelion at a nearby ford, then heading south. Because of the extended break we had had in the glade, we could now not afford to move on slowly. Orcs could march for miles in the long winter night and keep marching even during the pale daytime if they had to. According to Carnistir and all the people with him, the troops that Morgoth had sent were bigger than any previous time, and somehow fiercer too. It was obvious that Morgoth had not been lazy during the time we had kept him locked in his hideout: he had formed himself new forces, and part of those forces had already lain Dorthonion in waste.

Our retreat was a gamble. The strategy was based on the faith in that the Orcs would follow us, rather than stray away from our wake and turn towards Himring. That is why our distance to them was never too long. During all our march we trusted their ignorance and tricked them into following us to a place where we could hold a front until we had obliterated them. Thankfully the game of tag did not last for too long: the road to River Ascar was less than a hundred miles. On the other hand, what waited for us after the race was a siege by the river. If all failed there, we would try to make back for Amon Ereb. That, however, would be another long journey, and unlike Thargelion, the western side of Gelion had not nearly as much woodland to protect us from evil eyes.

"River Ascar," Pityafinwë says, stopping his horse. Behind the grey treetrunks, down a slope, we see a grey narrow stream rushing westwards where it would join the great Gelion. As we approached it, I realized it looked narrow mostly because its edges were lined with ice. With freezing feet we cross the water best as we can.

"So this is the place," I say, observing our surroundings as we reach the other side. The rocky angle of two meeting rivers, with a half-ruined stockblockade shielding the northern side, a modest tower, yet better than anything we had seen by the road so far.

"This is it," Carnistir confirmed with a nod. "It may not look great and fancy, but this angle was once held under siege for seven whole days." He looked grim as we watched the rest of our troops cross the river. The cavalry could not cross the river, as the narrow ice bridge we had used would not have held their weight, and the stream elsewhere was dangerous to cross at winter. However, we had already decided that they would serve as the vanguard further away and lead whatever Orcs they could not hold to where we could take care of them from behind the blockade which we spent the rest of the day fortifying with stone. It was not the best of plans, I realize now, but it was enough. The stream would be of equal hinderance to the Orcs, under whose weight the ice was certain to break.

Yet when the fight started the next night, I felt as if nothing was certain.

Ugly foul-jawed creatures lined the other side of the stream. Our troops on horses had been able to split the enemy's soldiers and directed a part of them to battle elsewhere, but after that we received no news from them. The treck through Thargelion had silled through the enemy in some ways, but there were still plenty of Orcs left to deal with. My sword and armour became bloodied with enemy filth. By the following morning they had besieged us.

The second day the Orcs tried to cross the river. They had so far been unable to to reach our side, and we had had the advantage of attacking them on their ground and then retreating back behind the blockade. Many Orcs had drowned in their attempts to repay the visit before they thought of bringing in something to function as a bridge. We slew many as the reached our shore. They slew many as they pushed through.

The third day the riders returned – it was a successful day, because they attacked the Orcs from behind, taking them by surprise. However, it cost many lives on our side as well. During the short daytime my brothers and I poured over maps and diagrams. At the end of that day we saw the northern sky briefly turn red again. We did not know the exact reason or location, only that it clenched our hearts.

The fourth day I received a nasty blow in the head. It was nothing, I told Carnistir as he bandaged my brow. "I know you want to prove your worth," he muttered, tearing another piece of bandage with his teeth. "But don't be so reckless."

"I am not reckless," I replied.

"This is why I didn't want you to have to come to battle," he said.

Behind him, Pityafinwë crossed his arms. "You are grateful for having us here," he said.

Carnistir did not reply, but kept working with the bandage. Finally binding it fast, he glanced back at Pityo. "I am now, yes. But if the siege falls, I would be even more grateful if I could trust you were out of harm's way."

At that I did not have the heart to tell him now to underestimate us.

The fifth day was much like the previous, and the sixth blurred into the fifth as the day with heavy snowfall was as dark as the night before. Our enemy had suffered greater losses than we had, but not enough to make us strong enough to go out on them without certain two-sided slaughter. At some point, when I peeked from across the blockade, I thought the air looked a bit less heavy, the shadows paler, but Pityafinwë placed a hand on my forehead and said it was probably just my imagination. By imagination I presumed he meant possible concussion, the way his eyes looked at me in concern.

By the seventh day I had lost count of days, but Carnistir said it was the seventh. "No one has ever held this blockade for more than seven days," he said grimly that morning.

"At least someone has held it for as many as seven," Pityafinwë replied with all the optimism he could muster. "And surely we can do better."

"What happened on their seventh day?" I asked.

"I arrived and the siege ended," Carnistir replied.

As the bleak light of that seventh day waned, a cry went out among the Orcs outside the blockade. Our guards, not having expected an attack until dark, readied their bows, preparing for an attack. Then the realization of that the Orcs were occupied by something else hit us, and with caution we all armed ourselves with weapons. Foreign arrows were flying from among the trees and bushes. At the end of that day the Orcs were either dead or driven away. After the unexpected turn of events, they had taken up a retreat, making us the pursuer, our remaining horsemen riding after them, leaving their rearguard into a red mess on the grey snow.

The leader of the Green-elves stepped forward, casually counting the arrows he had picked up from the trampled ground. "We meet again," he said, glancing at us, Pityafinwë and me. "A fine prey you hunters have caught, but you should have slain it before bringing it to our lands."

"So you are the people of Ossiriand," Carnistir said, stepping forth. "I hope you accept our gratefulness even though it is the only thing we can offer."

"I presume you are the great lord of Thargelion. We did not come here for rewards for saving you," the Green-elf said. "But certainly, I am glad you recognize the aid we have provided you with." He turned towards Pityafinwë and me. "That we should meet such a long way from your fortress. Have you received any news from your brother in Himlad?"

"No, nothing concerning the signs you spoke of," Pityafinwë said slowly. "In fact... no news at all."

"We need to try to contact our allies," Carnistir said. "We should send a message to Himlad and Himring."

"How is your proud fortress upon Amon Ereb?" the Green-elf asked.

"We left some people to keep it," I said. "The enemy is unlikely to come there: it is a modest place and so recently settled that few even know we live there."

"It is a famous battleground, the place of a heroic last stand long ago," came the correction. "Orcs will remember its existence. But very well, I trust that you know what is the best course of action for a land you have claimed. I wish you luck. We may meet again." Thus he turned away.

"Green-elves, are they always like that?" Carnistir asked, looking after them as their white cloaks disappeared into the woods. "You have strange friends." I laughed. He looked at me curiously, then smiled as well. We knew that we had but briefly halted the advancement of the Orcs, that they would return at some point, probably soon; we knew that Thargelion would never return to what it was, but at that moment a great relief filled all of us.

After we had laid the dead to rest, we returned to Amon Ereb. Quick messengers were sent north to Himring. Should they return with bad news, we would prepare to journey north; with good news, we could stay on Ereb, guarding the west bank of Gelion from there. The eastern side would be protected by the Green-elves.

"It is a fine fortress," Carnistir said, eyeing at our half-finished home. "Yes, one can clearly see the Dwarven handiwork in these blocks... but the style is quite Noldorin."

"It's not even nearly finished. We need a lot more room if your people is going to stay here as well," Pityafinwë said apologetically. "But we put the construction on hold for the winter."

"Then we shall continue together once spring comes," replied Caranthir. "If it comes."

Spring did come. Sooner than we had expected it to, it seemed, and after a week or so of freezing nights, the weather became warmer again, and we received a reply from Himring, bringing our isolation to an end.

The message was read out loud at the court meeting. A scribe's formal handwriting. _Himring was laid under a siege, but stood strong against it. Himlad was forced to surrender after grievous losses in long battles, but Princes Celegorm and Curufin led their people westwards, their destination, according to mixed reports, either Tol Sirion or Nargothrond. Their fate is currently unknown. The surrounding hills were recaptured and the Pass of Aglon was taken under Noldorin control. Refugees from Dorthonion have joined the troops at Himring, uniting under the rule of Prince Maedhros. Refugees state that a number of survivors have travelled east under the leadership of Lady Emeldir of the House of Bëor. The territory of Dorthonion has been deemed hostile, having fallen under control of the enemy. Princes Angrod and Aegnor have been confirmed to have been killed in action. No messengers have been able to reach High-King Fingolfin or Prince Fingon, all roads to Mithrim having been cut by enemy forces... _

So the text went on, with little hope in sight. It described deaths and losses, sieges and battles, a grim update on what was happening in the outside world. It ended by Prince Maedhros' orders to keep Amon Ereb fully guarded and keep enemies from entering Estolad or the South.

A part of the message was not read at the meeting. The familiar handwriting of Macalaurë.

_Pityo, Telvo. You marched forth bravely although we never asked you to. Was the battle when we first entered Middle-Earth not enough? You have shown the bravery we always knew you had, yet we wish you had not needed to. With things as they are, however, peace cannot return to Beleriand and war will become a reality again. _

_The last message from Tyelkormo was recovered by scouts to the ruins of Himlad. In the letter mentioned that he regretted how he was unable to contact you, but at that he had indeed felt an unrest in the woods, but that not even the animals had been able to give their fear a name other than the obvious: Moringotto. However, the rest of the message had been left unfinished. What his words are about, we do not know, but we hope whatever you wanted to ask him will be answered the next time you meet. For you shall meet again. We all shall meet again. Keep that in mind. _

_Moryo, you already know what to do: keep an eye on them, keep them out of harm's way. To you as well: we shall meet again. We dare not yet leave Himring for the fear of the Orcs returning – we are in the middle of a standstill – but before the next snow, we will meet. Take heart, brothers. _

We did not meet them before the next snow. Letters were sent and received: we even learnt that Tyelkormo and Curufinwë had after a detour to Tol Sirion made their way safely to Nargothrond with Artaresto, where they now lived with Findaráto. Still it sounded strange in my ears that Tyelkormo and Curufinwë had joined Artaresto out of all people, but I was glad. However, we heard little from them.

Maitimo and Macalaurë had written that we would meet them, but urgent errands sent them always elsewhere. After the siege of Mithrim had ended in the death of our uncle and the crowning of a new High-King, Maitimo had to make long journeys to visit our newly crowned cousin while Macalaurë stayed behind to take care of the duties of the lord on Himring. Maitimo's journeys never came south.

We also had our own duties. What sort of duties would be left to us? For one thing, the fortress upon Amon Ereb was given a second tower and a second wall. Its inner yard was expanded and by the end of that year there was room enough for all to settle in comfortably.

A day late that year, just before the end of autumn, Pityafinwë and I went out hunting with just the two of us. So many hunting trips that year had been for hunting Orcs only, with warriors and swords, fierce defences against enemies journeying the banks of Gelion. It was a refreshing change to ride north-west instead, away from the routine, and to see familiar landscapes as we neared the old lands of Estolad. Estolad with its abandoned ruins still intact.

Abandoned. "Are we happier with Amon Ereb, do you think?" I asked my brother that night at our small campfire upon which we roasted a piece of deer we had caught that day.

"We still have no followers, no vassals," Pityafinwë yawned. "We have proved our worth, however." He lay down, stretched on the ground, staring at the skies. "But are we happier? We have seen war. Do you think we can ever be happier?" I did not reply.

I stared into the dark night. We had not spent a single night outside just for fun, not since the battle. Moldy fruits and dry leaves hung from the tree by the camp, even drier brambles covered the ground, and the dirty white skeleton a small, skinny animal lay beneath the tangled branches. Sparks from the fire flew up in the chilly air. I leaned back.

"I doubt the key to happiness is having vassals and fortresses," I said eventually.

"No, but it is the way to protect those you care of," Pityafinwë replied. "And is that not the key to not being always underestimated?"

"I think..." I said then, "that we have never been truly underestimated." Pityafinwë turned to look at me. "I think," I went on, "everybody has merely been discouraging us from taking action, precisely because they want to protect those they care of."

Pityafinwë laughed, but his laugh was kind. "This is why I love you. Always saying things like that," he said with a smile. Then he rose to a sitting position and poked at the fire with a stick. "I forgive them for protecting us, but still think it is time for us to come forth. We have seen war. It makes me happier only because it lets me know there is still a purpose for us, a place for us to show our talents. As long as I have a reason to strive forwards..."

We ate our dinner in silence, watching the stars and the nightsky that in the north was only a black and grey as the shadowed clouds reeled across the lands. The lands where even our kinsfolk would no longer travel, now that the bliss of the Long Peace had ended. Beautiful in their emptiness, the emptiness that had, in the end, been the reason it was still untouched by the wars – almost like a blessing. Again I fell asleep before my brother, and in those quiet lands I slept more peacefully than I had slept since we decided to take matters into our own hands and build ourselves a fortress...

Dorthonion had fallen, lives had been lost, Beleriand after the siege was every bit as grim as the letter from Prince Maedhros had made it sound. But being hunters, my brother and I would adapt. Used to weather and wind as we were.

* * *

_The End_


End file.
